Page 21 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

I shudder. There’s still blood smudged and dried all over me despite his best efforts, covered mostly by my clothes but still there. Not to mention thefeelingof Barnes and Armstrong’s hands on my body. And before that I sat through a ten hour commercial flight. Even so-

“I’m not touching any surface in that bathroom.”

I practicallyhearhis eyes roll. “You’re not lying in this bed without getting cleaned off.”

“You’ll have to drag me in there yourself then,” I snap, whirling on him.

Piers’s eyebrows raise, and I realize what I’ve said too late. “If you insist,” he shrugs, before snatching me by the shoulders and walking me straight into the tiny bathroom. Before I can even think to start struggling, he has the door closed and is bodily blocking it. I cross my arms over my chest, and he does the same.

“What now, hm?” I demand.

Piers shrugs. “Well, I assumed you knew how to shower-”

“You ass-”

“You can strip down, or I’ll do it for you. Either way works for me. But you’re not leaving until you get cleaned off.”

My whole face feels too hot to be healthy. My thoughts go back to the whisper of his breath on my cheek, the feeling of the wall against my back and his body penning me in. Even when his hands were sponging blood off my nearly naked back and my side was freshly stitched, I wanted him to keep touching me.

What would it be like for his hands to take the clothes off my body? Gentle, I think, based on my limited past experience. Exhilarating, surely.

And, more than anything, forbidden. By my brother. By the Ashwoods who would prefer I be dead. By anyone in Piers’s household who’d rather he be back where he belongs in Wesley Hall than here with me. And he will go back. Sooner rather than later. I’ll make sure of that.

But until then… I could indulge just once in a kindness he’s desperate to show me.

Who’s taking the mile now?

I don’t know what Piers sees in my face, but I do see his pupils expand. His gaze wanders away from my face, down my body, and my skin comes alive wherever it touches me. He chews his bottom lip, as if fighting the urge to taste me.

Then he turns and leaves the bathroom, closing the door with a snap behind him.

I’m left feeling cold and shocked, but before that shock can curdle into rage, Piers returns with a plastic bag in his hands. He must’ve taken it from the basket left for us to put our dirty clothes into- just in case we trusted this dubious place to wash them for us. He closes himself into the bathroom with me again, his eyes focused on folding the plastic into a narrow strip. I watch, confused and fascinated, until I realize it’s meant to keep my stitches from getting wet. Once the bag is folded, Piers turns to me.

I still haven’t begun to undress, and his eyes are still dark with the desire to do it himself.

“Well?” he asks. “Are you going to be difficult then?”

My breath feels trapped in my chest. “When have I ever not been?”

It takes a single step to bring us chest to chest, the bathroom is so small. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you fight what’s good for you.” He says it like a warning, but there’s a spark in his eyes that promises he won’t let that happen.

“I’m always hurting myself,” I tell him, and watch some of his amusement fade. “This is nothing new.”

Piers’s hands rest on my shoulders, and I expect him to push me up against the wall, but he turns me around instead. I suck in a breath as he drags his palms down my back to the hem of my shirt, then back up again, baring my skin to the chill air. Lifting my arms over my head sends pain through my side, but I don’t wince as Piers pulls my shirt off.

I welcome it instead.

Piers’s breath tickles the back of my ear, his fingertips skating over my hips. “Brace yourself,” he tells me, before wrapping the chilly folded plastic around my waist. I flinch, but don’t pull away as he ties it off behind me like a sash.

I nearlydojerk away when Piers reaches around the front of me and unzips my pants. My breath catches and he pauses. When I turn my head, my lips brush against his cheekbone. Am I trembling, or is it him? Perhaps we’re both being overwhelmed. And I’m not even naked yet.

“How can you even stand to touch me?” I whisper.

Piers hooks his fingers under the waistband of my pants and pushes them down. I step out of the pile of fabric left on the floor, and freeze again when I feel his touch tease the clasp of my bra. His knuckles whisper against my skin, and my heart clenches at their tenderness.

Just once. I’m only letting this happen once. It’s fine if it happens once and never again.

I let my bra fall among my abandoned pants. But instead of taking off my underwear as well, Piers steps away. The water turns on in the shower, shockingly loud in the tense stillness. I look back over my shoulder and find Piers stripping in a utilitarian way, reaching out to test the water with his fingertips in between removing his shirt and unbuckling his belt. I watch the muscles flex in his back, watch the freckles shift across his shoulders and the back of his neck.

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